


Portrait

by atti (attilatehbun)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Fluff, Heterosexual Sex, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings, The Quidditch Pitch: Self Pleasure, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-04
Updated: 2008-01-04
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attilatehbun/pseuds/atti
Summary: Dean draws Luna. Simple, right?And he wants so badly to touch her, slide over her, taste the new moonlight and the grass stains and the salt of her skin.





	Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: As always, much love to the incomparable TheGiantSquid for looking over my shoulder and keeping me from making an ass out of myself (aka giving me a great beta).  


* * *

**Portrait**

 

~*~ 

When she first suggests it, Dean wants to use paint. He loves paint's slickness, its fluidity, and it seems the perfect medium in which to capture her transience. Paint may be slow, yes, but she has not started yet and he still imagines that he can be patient. And what but paint could fully realize her? Dean shuffles the options in his mind, lays them out piece by piece as piece by piece of Luna's clothing pools around her bare feet.  
  
_Oils_ , he thinks, _to catch the swirl of her hair. Or watercolors that spread and absorb the flush of her cheeks, her breasts, her mons._  
  
Then the sun drops lower on the horizon, Luna slides into the grass, fingers already working at her nipples, one caught on her lower lip, and he needs charcoals. Charcoals, because when she's lying there, curled in the grass, he sees the grittiness of the streak of mud on her ribs. He sees the light glinting in her eyes. He wants the sharpness of the motion of her fingers as they work, work, work.  
  
He is too impatient for paints, he realizes. They will take him too far from her motion, too far from the fingers dragging across her lips down her neck catching on her collarbone sliding and sliding and _plunging_ inside her. No, he must stay connected. He _must_ begin.  
  
Dean almost touches the tip of the charcoal to parchment, almost commits the curve of her now gently bucking hips to more than just his memory, but Luna catches him with those wide blue eyes. Her hands still for a moment and she props herself up, hair curling and coiling around her breasts, around her nipples. Even in this failing light, he can see they are hard, and he is hard, and _dammit_ he wants to decide on a medium because as beautiful as it is to watch Luna touch herself, _he_ wants to be the one curling around those nipples, dipping into her wetness.  
  
The setting sun stains her body, and all at once Dean knows he cannot use color. He is jealous of the way the light is possessing her skin, how the sunlight and its golden-purple hues is the _wrong_ light, and the charcoals are tossed aside without a single regret as they say it together - _Ink_ \- as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Luna smiles serenely, her perfect Luna smile, and plucks the sunflower from her hair. She slides it down over herself, circling, circling, circling _sternum_ to _ribs_ to _navel_ , finally letting it settle in the groove of her hipbone. The caress she gives the petals is identical to the one she gives herself seconds later.  


_Ink_ , Dean thinks, and he knows it is right. Ink has her fluidity and her sharpness. Ink will anchor her without tying her down; ink will solidify her. Ink will stain his fingers and then later her body when he is finally allowed to _touch_.  
  
And he wants so badly to touch her, slide over her, taste the new moonlight and the grass stains and the salt of her skin. But he will not allow himself to hurry when he dips his quill and lets the first line of ink slick across the parchment. For he can tease too.  
  
As her hands fall into a rhythm and her eyes squeeze shut, he takes care in each wisp of hair that the breeze plays with. He makes real the rising flush in her cheeks; he can feel the heat of it coming off the page. He spends perhaps _too_ much time capturing her breasts, each gasp of air reflected in the swell of his lines. Her fingers dance and cup and tweak on the parchment just as their inspirations do.  
  
He feels it will soon be time, but still he does not rush, instead smoothing his lines lower and lower. His quill kisses the dip of her navel into the parchment and she sighs. Lower still, and he faithfully captures each of her fingers as they slide into her, one by one. There is not even a shake in his lines as her thumb presses to her clit and her hips buck ever faster.  
  
Dean's hands blur as they chase Luna's across the parchment. The ink shifts, the lines are in constant flux, adapting, sliding, changing as they form and reform to catch Luna's every movement, seeming as alive as she does. Dean is quick, so quick, blending and shading and adding layer upon layer to keep up with her form, making each piece of her image as deeply felt as he feels her. He races to keep up as every movement brings her higher and closer to that breaking moment when the portrait will be finished, complete or not.  
  
Dean is wishing he could commit her soft cries to his parchment. He is tossing his quill away in favor of a newer, sharper nib; he is spilling ink in the dirt and not caring; he is following her hand on her breasts, her parted lips, and her slidingthrusting fingers.  
  
Luna on the grass and Luna on the parchment are gasping for breath, grasping themselves, writhing higher from the ground. And then they are biting their lips with a low keening wail, they are coming, and Dean has drawn the last curve of her back and the portrait is finished.  
  
Luna slides back down to earth, the parchment flutters to the ground, and Dean is kissing her, covering her, being covered by her. The sunflower falls, crushed, and Luna skims it up and scratches its stem like a quill, smooths its petals like ink, drawing it down his back. The ink from his hands slides onto her skin just as he'd imagined; he copies his portrait back onto her. Inky fingers trace the path of her hands and his lines across her body, circling _sternum_ to _ribs_ to _navel_ , across her breasts then _down_. The ink stains her, linking her to the portrait and the portrait to her. But as she slides underneath him, on top of him, over and over and over, the ink sinks onto his skin. They are joined by their bodies as they are joined by the ink, and the moonlight glints over them, creating a far more beautiful portrait.  
  
~*~fin~*~


End file.
